


Rain City

by charvelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction recovery, Alternate Universe - Canada, Alternate Universe - Marijuana, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Demisexual!Castiel, Drug Addiction, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Grief, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use, Substance Abuse, Switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:25:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charvelle/pseuds/charvelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Milton is lost to grief after the death of his mother, but remains blind to it. Instead he throws himself into the task of keeping his family together: his siblings each struggle with their own grief, and his father Chuck is caught up in the chase of their estranged eldest brother, Luke.</p><p>Dean Winchester has a hard pill to swallow when a rehab facility insists they keep John for another six months. Unfortunately, those six months won’t come cheap. Dean’s at the end of his rope already: renting a single bedroom apartment isn’t cheap either, and his job doesn’t exactly pay well. Not to mention Sam’s big dreams for school. But he knows he doesn’t have a choice.</p><p>When Castiel’s grief leads him to a marijuana dispensary, the two boys find sanctuary in each other, and watch their poorly laid plans crumble to dust. </p><p>Or: The AU Where Dean and Cas Smoke A Fuck Ton of Ganja.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prosper

**Author's Note:**

> Preface/Disclaimer:
> 
> So I used the tags “Alternate Universe – Canada” and “Alternate Universe – Marijuana” because apparently those are necessary. 
> 
> My main disclaimer: I LOVE MARIJUANA. I started as a recreational smoker, before getting my medicinal license for various mental illnesses. I work in a weed lounge, and smoke from morning til bedtime, seven days a week. I'm an experienced toker who knows her mind/body, knows marijuana, and knows how those things work with one another (read: EXTREMELY WELL :D). I am pro-legalization and believe that marijuana is medicine. 
> 
> If you don't jive with these sentiments, this likely isn't the fic for you.
> 
> That being said, I have a few fics on the backburner which don't feature mj at all. So if weed bothers you (which is totally cool), please stick around for my other fics. I don't like anyone to feel left out! <3
> 
> Also, anyone who has read my other fics knows that I haven't painted John Winchester in a positive light. In this fic, though, I've played with the idea of John actually trying to be a parent and decent human being. 
> 
> My last tiny disclaimer: this story TECHNICALLY starts as underage, since Castiel is 17 and Dean is 22. But they both have birthdays so Cas is legal fairly quickly :)

           

 

            Dean reminded himself that fifteen minutes wasn’t an outrageous amount of time to spend in a waiting room. He busied himself by checking his cell: work hadn’t called, and Sam hadn’t texted.

            When twenty-five minutes passed, Dean started to get pissy. The hidden-away and highly esteemed rehabilitation center was ridiculously expensive. He didn’t think he was asking a whole lot that doctors be on time – M.D. or Ph. D or whatever.

            Before he could really get himself going, though, Dean was called into the office of Dr. Cartwright. She was a middle-aged woman with a widow’s peak and blood red lips. Her office was small and tucked away near the back of the building, and resembled a living room more than an office. Dean sat on one end of a spacious couch as Dr. Cartwright perched on an armchair across from him.

            “So what’s this about?” Dean asked. “My dad was supposed to be sprung this week. That’s still the plan, right?”

            Dr. Cartwright pursed her lips in sympathy. Not a good sign.

            “Recovery is a process.” She said, for what Dean was sure was the millionth time. “We can’t rush things. If we try, we might undo the progress your dad has already made here.”

            “So he’s not rock solid.” Dean reasoned, leaning forward. “I get it. But don’t you guys have an outpatient program, or something? He’ll go to meetings every week – every day, if he has to. Just let him come home.”

            “It’s not that simple.” Dr. Cartwright’s voice was gentle. “Re-joining the world after rehabilitation is a difficult process. We want to be sure John is set up for success when it happens, and I just can’t recommend he take that leap right now.”

            “Well how much longer is this going to take?” Dean tried not to sound too desperate. Dr. Cartwright took a breath before answering.

            “Your father has been abusing substances for a very long time. These aren’t things that go away easily, Dean. I understand you want your father back. But I truly believe this is what’s best for John.”

            Dean wasn’t looking at Dr. Cartwright. He was staring at his hands, flexing the tendons near his knuckles to distract from the panic in his gut. “How long?”

            Dr. Cartwright paused. “Four months, maybe six.”

            Dean dropped his head into his hands. They had been so _close…_ he had been banking on bringing John back to Sam, like some long lost prodigal father: fixed and bandaged and almost good as new. And then they would be a family again.

            He looked up at Dr. Cartwright. “Our insurance ran out after the first six months, man. I got a little brother to put through school. How am I supposed to pay for this?”

            “We have resources available to help - ”

            Dean shook his head. “We don’t qualify for anything up here, not while we’re still American citizens.”

            Dr. Cartwright frowned. “Maybe, if you got in touch with the LAPD - ”

           “My dad had more enemies than friends at the LAPD.” Dean answered shortly. “We were lucky they funded his first six months at all.”

            Dr. Cartwright fell silent, watching Dean with pity. He hated it.

            “I’m sorry, Dean.” She said. “I really am. I’ve already talked with John; he could use a little reassurance about all this. But we just need your decision.”

            Dean clenched his hand into a fist and then relaxed it again. He went through his (only) two options:

            Pull John out of rehab: watch him relapse on either booze or the pills or both, pick up the pieces of Sam witnessing it all, and then try and not blame himself for everything.

            Or, leave John in the safe cocoon of rehab, with his youngest son far away from him, even though Dean had nowhere near enough money to pay for it.

            Swallowing, Dean knew he never really had a choice.

            “Is there paperwork I gotta sign for this, or what?”

 

*

 

            John closed his eyes to the autumn wind pulling at his hair. It was a serene, vulnerable gesture that looked strange on the man, who Dean was used to seeing jump in the middle of bar fights and cuss out unruly degenerates in his backseat.

           The rehabilitation center’s small garden was empty but for the two of them. Mountains covered in evergreen trees rose behind them and the picnic tables in the garden were covered in a thin layer of frost. Despite being there for a year, Dean still wasn’t used to British Columbia’s contradictory climate: the rain was warm and insulating, while sunny winter days were often the coldest.

            His father looked almost peaceful, but Dean decided “resigned” was probably a better word. While John’s eyes were clear and open, his face was covered in weeks-old scruff and his dark hair had grown a few unruly inches. He wore dirty blue jeans and a big black hoodie, hiding the tremors that the withdrawal racked through his body.

            “You look good.” Dean’s voice was deadpan; not at all showing the warmth the words otherwise should have conveyed. John opened his eyes and looked down at his hands.

            “I’m getting there.” His voice was low and rough, like the bark of an old dog. Dean leaned toward it. “How’s Sam?”

            “Good.” Dean cleared his throat. “Great. He would’ve come, it’s just - ”

            “I get it.” John cut in. “School day.”

            Dean swallowed and nodded, looking down at his knuckles. “I also didn’t tell him I was coming to see you.”

            John frowned. “Why not?”

            “When your doctors called about meeting me, they didn’t mention anything about you getting sprung. I sorta read between the lines.” Dean confessed. “I couldn’t tell Sam. He’s been gearing up for you coming home for weeks.”

            John sighed, a long-suffering sound. “I’m sorry, Dean. I really thought I’d have things under control after those first six months.”

            Now, Dean was stunned into silence. Rehab had somewhat softened and subdued John, but he’d always maintained those rough edges. Dean didn’t see any sign of those edges now, but only exhaustion, etched into the lines around John’s eyes.

            “It’s okay.” Dean answered, “You can’t rush shit like this. It’s okay.”

            John fell silent, an angry pinch to his face, and Dean knew what they were both thinking: that it wasn’t okay, that nothing about how their lives had turned out was okay, but it wasn’t worth saying because they couldn’t do anything about it.

            Winchesters weren’t whiners.

            “I can’t ask this of you boys.” John hunched forward as tremors seized him again, but he tried to cover the action by rubbing vigorously at his cramping hands. It made Dean’s heart give a hollow throb.

            “There’s nothing to ask; it’s done.” Dean said the words automatically, like catapulting a dingy into stormy waters. He’d long learned that when he tried hard enough, he could pull John out before he drowned. “I got Sam and the bills covered. Just focus on getting off the hooch, all right?”

            Dean’s attempt at light-heartedness fell flat; where Sam might have offered a half-smile, John just grimaced.

            “Dean, I still have no idea how you came up with the money to pay last time.” John leaned toward his son, his voice growing low and intense. “God knows it wasn’t legal, whatever it was, and I’m sick of trying to forget that I know that.”

            Dean swallowed as guilt colored his neck. “Cartwright says you’ll go off the deep end if we yank you out now. Do you think Sam and me want that?”

            “Of course not.” John almost growled. “But I’ll be damned if I sit here drying out while my eldest son becomes a criminal just to keep me here.”

            Dean took a breath, feeling the tension work its way through his body. This side of five years ago, that tone of John’s voice would have been downright foreboding. But hitting rock bottom had changed John Winchester: now, a brusque tone was the only bruising thing about him.

            “Look,” Dean reasoned quietly, “I want you patched up and back home as much as anyone. But when you come back, I need you solid. I’ll get the money a legit way, just… stay here, and get better, okay?”

            It happened rarely, this honesty with his dad. And it was still new; new enough to make his knee bounce in subconscious anxiety as he searched John’s grief-lined face.

            The man was still uncertain. Dean could see it in the way his eyes darted around the garden, then scaled the mountains in the near distance: _freedom._ As much as Dean hated himself for it, he was terrified that John would still chase freedom in rattling containers of Oxycontin or at the bottom of beer bottles.

            It was then that Dean knew: he was telling his father _stay here until you’re sober,_ when he really wanted to say _stay here until I can trust you again._

            “Six months.” John stooped. “No more.”

 

*

 

            Castiel shucked off his blazer as soon as he pushed through the school’s side doors. The day outside was crisp and made gooseflesh rise on his arms; he stuffed the blazer in his backpack and pulled out his jacket instead.

            As he pulled the zipper up to his chin, Castiel tried to convince himself that what he was doing wasn’t technically skipping school. The word ‘skipping’ implied he was missing out on material, when like always, he was ahead of every class by about three weeks. He wouldn’t be missing anything. This was merely a much-deserved break.

            As Castiel made his way to the school’s parking lot, he spotted Ash’s beat-up Toyota pickup squeezed between two hybrid cars. The kid had the driver’s window open and a joint hanging from his mouth, his head leaning against the head rest. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.

            Castiel walked up to the truck and lightly thumped his fist against the door. Ash jumped, taking the sunglasses from his eyes.

            “Shit, man.” The joint twitched. “If you keep sneaking up on me, I’m gonna put a bell on you.”

            Castiel stifled an eye-roll, instead glancing around the school parking lot. It was mostly empty, save for a few burnouts huddled around the backdoor. He looked back at Ash.

            “Eighty bucks, right?”

            “Shit, right to business – yeah, eighty square.” Ash leaned over the truck’s bench seat and pushed open the passenger door. “Get in.”

            Castiel walked to the other side of the truck and hopped in. He’d only been inside a couple of times before, but as always it smelled like dope, cigarettes and gasoline.

            Ash held his hand out expectantly. Castiel dug in his pocket and produced a wad of twenty-dollar bills.

The bright green and shiny plastic Canadian bills were still foreign to him. The last American bills he had on him were now stuffed at the back of his nightstand drawer, presumably waiting for a homecoming Castiel wasn’t sure would ever come.

            He handed Ash four bills.

            “I’ll never get used to the circus money, man.” Ash voiced Castiel’s thoughts, his Southern drawl faded but still there.

            “Hopefully, I won’t have to.” Castiel intoned.

            Ash leaned over and popped open the glove box, revealing stacks of thick envelopes, a hunting knife, and a considerably large wad of American cash. He pulled out a newer looking envelope, dug around and then threw two plastic cards in Castiel’s lap.

            “Abracadabra, my few-worded friend.” He said, passing Castiel the joint. “That second one’s hard to come by. You’re lucky Gabe’s your big brother.”

            Castiel took the joint as he raised an eyebrow at Ash. “That might be the first time anyone has ever said that.”

            He toked as he looked at the cards. One was a British Columbia I.D., practically identical to his real one except for the birth date, which showed him as 19 instead of 17. The second was a laminated card headed with the words _Healing Grace Medicinal Society._ Below that was a membership number, and then a drawing of a cannabis leaf.

            “These are legit?” Castiel passed the joint back, hope flaring in his heart.

            “Hell yeah.” Ash gave him a look. “They’re about as legit as fake licenses can get. The I.D. card I make for just about everybody, hell it’s so easy it’s not even fun anymore. The dispensary card, though – that’s me paying my debt to Gabriel. Like I said, I don’t give those out to anybody. Not phony ones, anyway.”

            Castiel looked at the dispensary card again. Montana hadn’t been the easiest state to find decent marijuana in, especially in Missoula. He’d been bending over backwards to get a medicinal license, and had only _just_ found a doctor who was taking his various issues seriously when Chuck had decided to uproot the family. To fucking _Canada,_ for chrissake.

            Castiel still subconsciously bit his tongue around those last words.

            “This is the dispensary you work at, right?” He asked Ash.

            “Technically, I work next door.” Ash passed him back the joint. “Grim Reefer’s the lounge attached to the dispensary. It’s basically just a chill place where people can roll and smoke in peace, you know?”

            Castiel chuckled at Ash’s vernacular. He was only eighteen years old and born in the nineties, but everything about the kid said _hippie,_ despite his mullet throwback haircut.

            “And that card is accepted at most dispensaries, so you can buy weed basically anywhere downtown.” Ash went on. “You shouldn’t have to, though. Healing Grace is probably the dopest place to buy pot in Van – pun intended.”

           Castiel snorted around the joint, then took a long inhale, feeling the smoke hit the back of his throat. He passed the jay back to Ash and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke lift to the ceiling of the truck cab.

           “You’re biased, though.” He replied, his voice sounding slow and lazy to his ears.

           “Maybe. But I’m serious – you’ll see. They’ve got amazing herb and shatter that looks like _honey,_ man. And the staff are wicked nice.”

           Castiel nodded along, getting a little lost in the I.D. cards in his hands.

           “So you never told me.” Ash blew smoke out of his mouth. Castiel looked at him questioningly. “Why you’re chronic.”

           Castiel looked out the windshield and sank a little deeper into his seat. “Does it matter?”

           “Hey, I’m just curious.” Ash passed the jay; Castiel took it. “Some kids just _seem_ like stoners, you know? You, though – you don’t talk much, but when you do, you sound like you’re from a novel or something. Gabe says you’re like a prodigy.”

           “Prodigies don’t smoke weed?” Smoke flicked up from his mouth as Castiel talked.

           “Not generally.” Ash rubbed his habitually red eyes. “But I’ve sold drugs to kid Einsteins before. They’re usually about uppers – Adderall, speed, blow. They don’t generally wanna slow down.”

           “I do.” Castiel looked at Ash. “Why do you care?”

           Ash scratched his chin. “I’m just curious, man. I really like my job at Grim, and I’m laying it on the line when I make those fake cards. I like to know why.”

          “Fair enough.” Castiel looked at the card again, and held it up. “So this is valid, like, now?”

          “Hell yeah, kid.” Ash clapped him on the shoulder. “Smoke weed and prosper.”

 

*

 


	2. Green

            Like about a hundred times before, Dean was relieved to be at work. The only time he’d been content with a job before this, he was seventeen and John had sent him to work in Bobby’s garage for a summer. Dean remembered South Dakota mornings that were hot before nine o’clock; the smell of engine oil and gasoline soaking into his clothes until Bobby’s old washer couldn’t get it out.

            As he looked around at Healing Grace, he was reminded of how far he was from Bobby and who he’d been at seventeen. The interior of the dispensary was hazy and the smell of ganja permeated the air. The front windows showcased the rainy street and grey sky, but the lights inside were warm. The sunny morning had given way to afternoon showers.

            Dean busied himself trimming the leaves off their newest shipment. A pile of neatly clipped nugs sat in a jar beside him, the label reading _Master Kush._

            Once upon a time, that mundane task would have frayed at Dean’s nerves. He preferred work that made his muscles tired; that put sweat and grime on his skin. The bullet wound in his shoulder meant those jobs weren’t possible anymore – at least not for a while. So he was more or less stuck at Healing Grace, a hippie paradise if he’d ever seen one.

            The only thing punctuating the otherwise peaceful atmosphere was the rap music blaring over the stereo.

            “Victor, can we switch it up, man?” Dean pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Victor looked over his shoulder from the other side of the counter. “If I hear another Kid Cudi song I might lose it.”

            “Dude, we’ve only heard him like – two times, tops.” Victor argued, but he still wandered to the stereo system behind Dean. Plugged in was Healing Grace’s old and scratched iPod classic, which held practically every genre of music, so long as it wasn’t Top 40.

            “What do you wanna hear?” Victor’s tone of voice made it clear he doubted Dean’s choice would be any good. Dean was used to their friendly banter; he and Victor had been arguing over the music selection since the day Dean started, over a year ago now.

            “The Dead.” Dean surprised himself when the answer came so quickly. Victor sighed in mourning, but two seconds later “Sugar Magnolia” was tripping its rhythm through the dispensary. Dean’s mouth twitched in a smile, but he looked at Victor suspiciously.

            “You never cave that fast.” He said. “What gives?”

            Victor shrugged sheepishly without meeting Dean’s gaze. “Nothing gives. You just seem a little out of it today. Guess I don’t feel like bitching at you.”

            Dean’s stomach turned. By now, he thought he more or less had his shit on lock down. If something phased Dean, hardly anyone noticed: he was a portrait of composed masks and expressions few people could read. So he thought that, while his mind was a snarl of thoughts about John getting sober and Sam graduating and their dire financial situation, surely nobody would _notice._

            “I’m not out of it.” Dean replied, mostly to save face. “Just feeling a little under the weather. That’s all.”

            Victor nodded though he didn’t look like he believed him. Still, he dropped it when the front door opened, letting in a blast of rain-cold air and the sound of water hitting pavement.

            A hooded figure slunk into the dispensary. As the door swung shut, it reached up and pushed the hood back. Coal-black hair, a little splattered with rain, emerged from beneath the hood; hiding beneath that hair was a pair of bright blue eyes.

            As the guy approached the counter, Dean thought that he would bet his paycheck this kid wasn’t of legal age. Which was unfortunate, because turning people away always harshed his buzz. Still, he put on his usual friendly-stoner smile and said,

            “Sup, man?”

            The kid turned those blue eyes on Dean, and Dean felt his chest tighten. There was something piercing about his stare, and it cut through Dean like an ice-cold wind.

            “Hi.” He replied, in a low, gravelly voice that somehow still sounded young. Dean’s suspicions piqued, but the kid reached into his jacket pocket and produced two cards. He placed them on the counter and slid them to Dean.

            Dean took them, glancing at the boy as he did. He took in his teen-aged face and the shag of youthful hair before turning his gaze to the cards.

            The first was a British Columbia ID card, same as the hundreds Dean had checked out before. The birthdate showed him as being 19, and the picture showed the same dark hair and penetrating stare.

            The ID did little to convince Dean. He himself could name five different sources for fake ID’s. It was the second card that gave him pause.

            It was a patient card for Healing Grace, completely legit except for one key detail: the logo was about two shades lighter than the originals, which told Dean that this card had been fabricated in Ash’s basement.

            Dean looked from the Healing Grace card to the ID. The name matched: _Castiel Milton._ He bit back a sigh, knowing that while he knew both those cards were likely fake, he wasn’t going to bust the kid.

            Mostly it was because Dean wasn’t into being a hypocrite. And he himself had been smoking weed since he was fourteen, so who was he to judge kids for doing the same?

            A very small part of Dean, though, registered that he didn’t want to turn this kid away because there was something about that intense gaze. It managed to jump through the static of Dean’s mind. Not much was able to do that.

            He slid the cards back to the kid – Castiel. He seemed to relax a little, as if he’d been expecting to be turned away.

            “What can I do you for?” Dean asked. Castiel turned his blue eyes on the shelves behind Dean, where glass jars of herb displayed names like Lemon Tooth and Pink Kush and Blue Cheese.

            As Castiel looked over the names, a tiny frown pinched at his brow. Dean tracked that minute movement, but was distracted when Castiel said,

            “Honestly, anything that will knock me out would be amazing.”

            Dean’s eyebrows shot up. In his experience, the younger kids were generally into sativas – Sour Diesel, Green Crack, Lemon Haze. Those were the buds that got into your head; that made you talkative and didn’t have a burnout. Party weed.

            Which was, apparently, not what this kid was after.

            “So – strong indica, then?” Dean asked, scratching his jaw as he turned to the jars behind him.

            “Preferably.”

            Dean pulled jars of Wheelchair and Chemo MK from the shelf, and placed them on the counter.

            “Wheelchair sounds pretty morbid, but it’s good shit.” He twisted the lids off the jars, then pushed them toward Castiel. “Heavy indica. It’ll put you out within thirty minutes. Chemo MK is a little milder; a combo of Chemo and Master Kush.”

            Castiel peered in the jars, then glanced up at Dean, glints of blue showing through his thick eyelashes. Dean’s stomach tightened.

            “Both?” Castiel asked, almost as if he could be wrong. Dean nodded.

            “Both it is. How much?”

            Castiel frowned. “Four grams. Each.”

            Dean nodded and pulled out the scale, then began pulling nugs out of the jars to weigh. He glanced up at Castiel again.

            Okay, he had to admit it – something about the kid was intriguing to him. He just couldn’t put his finger on _why._ Maybe because Healing Grace’s clientele consisted of old hippies and ex-cons, which Castiel was obviously neither. Because Dean had never heard of a _Castiel_ before (and that was a name he would definitely remember), yet the guy was well connected enough to get not one, but two pieces of fake ID from Ash. And then there was the fact that apparently, this Castiel was chasing sleep – just like Dean found himself doing, whenever his stash ran too low.

            “So,” Dean said, his curiosity getting to him, “New to Healing Grace? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

            “I just moved here, a few weeks ago.”

            “Yeah? Where from?” Dean had to concentrate to keep his voice nonchalant, even though he made small talk with customers every day.

            “Missoula. Montana.” Castiel supplied, sounding like he didn’t expect Dean to recognize the place. Still, Dean brightened a little.

            “The States. Nice – me too.” Dean ignored the voice in his head, which warned that usually, he didn’t offer up personal information to strangers. But Castiel’s expression brightened too; a spark in his blue eyes.

            “Whereabouts?”

            Dean hesitated, focusing on sliding the nugs of Wheelchair into a plastic baggie. “Los Angeles.”

            He could feel Castiel’s eyes on his face, and the kid somehow sensed Dean wouldn’t elaborate any more. Castiel nodded but then let it drop and a few beats of uncomfortable silence settled between them.

            Dean’s stomach began to snarl, and he felt a bolt of frustration. _What the hell? Why does this guy make you nervous – you have thirty pounds and at least four years on him._

            Fixing a polite but impersonal smile on his face, Dean sealed the baggies and slid them to Castiel.

            “Eighty even.”

            Castiel produced a few bills and slid them to Dean, before discreetly pocketing the baggies. Dean fought a chuckle: the kid was obviously used to these transactions taking place in parking lots or alleys.

            “Thanks.” Castiel gave Dean a nod, and then turned for the door.

            “Anytime.” Dean replied, but while this was a reflex response for any other customer, this time he realized he meant it.

 

*

 

            “I can’t believe you skipped school _without me,_ ” Gabriel whined for the tenth time, pulling at his school tie until the knot loosened. “I’m betrayed. If we don’t have each other as partners in crime, what the fuck _do_ we have?”

              Castiel rolled his eyes. “It was just the once. Besides, it’s ridiculously easy for me to blow off school – my grades are impeccable and the teachers, for whatever reason, seem to like me. You, however, are already falling behind in your classes and have managed to get on the bad side of half the faculty.”

              Castiel had a point, but he didn’t say the real reason why he hadn’t invited Gabriel to skip too: that as much as he loved his brother, Castiel just preferred to be by himself. The calm that came with solitude was something completely lost on Gabriel.

              “That’s just semantics, baby bro. What’s one day playing hooky, in the grand scheme of things?” Gabriel took his suit jacket off and threw it over the end of his bed. Castiel shook his head from where he lay on his own bed, sprawled on his stomach with a book open beneath him.

              “Since when are you concerned about the grand scheme of things?”

               Gabriel rolled his eyes and groaned. “Oh, come on – don’t get preachy on me.”

               “I’m not being _preachy_.” Castiel huffed, turning his eyes back to the book he’d picked up from the bookstore that afternoon. With a sting of frustration, he told himself that he was such a _dork_ – what kind of kid skips school to buy weed, then go to the bookstore?

               “Sure you are.” Gabriel flopped down on his bed, crossing his legs and throwing his arms behind his head. “You’re just not as obvious about it as you used to be. Remember when you wanted to grow up to be a priest? You had a poster of creepy religious paintings up on your wall.”

               “It was the Sistine Chapel,” Castiel glowered, “And it’s _art._ ”

               “Hey, whatever you say.” Gabriel shrugged, his eyes drifting closed. “My point being: only _you_ can skip school, and use being a goody-two-shoes as an excuse.”

               Flexing his jaw, Castiel pushed himself up and grabbed his jacket. He pulled the baggies of weed out and chucked them across the room, where they landed on Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel’s eyes snapped open.

              “If I’m such a goody two-shoes, would I have used my morning to pick _that_ up for us?” Castiel said coolly. Gabriel picked the bags up, a smile slowly lighting his face.

               “You know, you don’t have to share your shit with me anymore.” Gabriel said, though he opened the baggy and pressed his nose inside, inhaling deeply. “That’s kind of the point of me having my own license.”

               Castiel shrugged. “It’s fine. I always end up using some of yours, too. It evens out nicely.”

               “Fair point.” Gabriel sealed the baggy again and tossed it back to Castiel. Castiel had just tucked it into the drawer of his bedside table when their bedroom door swung open and Hael burst through it, her dark hair flying. Anna followed demurely, arms folded across her chest.

               “Cas! Gabe!” Hael shrieked, and Gabriel flinched.

               “Lower the volume, kiddo. You’re gonna make me deaf before I hit thirty.” Gabriel griped, but he was smiling at her. Hael bounded across the room and jumped onto Gabriel’s outstretched legs.

               “Guess what!?” She yelled, and Gabe winced. Anna pursed her lips at Hael before sitting on the edge of Castiel’s bed.

              Though fourteen, Anna was almost tragically old for her age. She’d always been a little more mature than other kids, but the repeated loss that had stricken the Novak family took an extremely hard toll on her.

              “What?” Gabriel asked Hael, pulling at the ends of her hair and making the eight-year-old slap at his hands.

              “We’re gunna have a Thanksgiving _play!_ ” Hael jumped up and down, her eyes bright with excitement. “And our whole _class_ is gunna be in it!”

              Gabriel’s mouth dropped open in exaggerated surprise. “Get out of here! We’re gunna have an actress in the family, Cas. Our very own Meryl Streep!”

              Hael giggled and Castiel frowned at Gabriel. “Isn’t it a bit early for a Thanksgiving play? It’s only the beginning of October.”

              “We’re in Canada, remember?” Anna said quietly, morose eyes not looking over at Castiel. “They celebrate Thanksgiving in October.”

              “Yeah, and why do they even _celebrate_ Thanksgiving?” Gabriel put in, obliging as Hael insisted he braid her hair. “Did they even have the whole Pilgrims-and-Indians thing here?”

              “I guess they just want an occasion to be thankful.” Castiel shrugged.

              “Thankful for _what?_ ” Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “Maple syrup and ice hockey? Oh – I guess we can always be thankful for their, um… home-grown product, right Castiel?”

               Hael turned her head to frown at Gabriel, and Anna looked at Castiel.

              “What’s he talking about?” She asked.

              “Nothing.” Castiel closed his book, shooting Gabriel a sharp glance before passing a hand over his face. He was seventeen years old – _seventeen freaking years old_ – and he never had a bedroom to call his own. He’d been alive for nearly two decades, and he _still_ had to deal with too many siblings constantly in his personal space.

               But Castiel never had been one for complaining, so he pushed his frustrations away and looked over at Anna. The lines around her eyes were tight, and her lips pale as she pressed them together.

               “Hey, what’s wrong?” Castiel asked quietly. “Still homesick?”

               Anna glanced over at Castiel and gave her head a small shake.

              “Not anymore; not really.” She intoned. “I was just… Castiel, do you ever find it strange that dad just moved us here without hardly any warning?”

              Castiel bit back a groan. He felt like he’d had this conversation, in some form another, at least a dozen times before with Anna. But, in true Castiel fashion, he ignored his frustration and looked at Anna with sympathy.

              “It was surprising, but… not entirely illogical. You know it was difficult for dad, staying in Missoula after mom died. That’s where they met, fell in love, started a family. He saw her everywhere.”

              Anna stared off listlessly but her lip began to tremble. Castiel continued softly.

              “I guess, when Pastor Joshua called him to take over here, he saw it as a sign. A chance to… ”

              “Start over?” Anna supplied bitterly, her voice biting.

              “No.” Castiel’s voice was gentle but firm. “A chance to grieve properly, more like.”

              “Still...” Anna sniffed. “Why did it have to be _Canada?_ We couldn’t have stayed in our own freaking country?”

              Castiel raised his eyebrows at the almost-swear passing through his sister’s prudent lips. “You got me there. God works in mysterious ways.”

              Castiel knew it was a cliché, but for whatever reason, he’d always liked that saying. Anna ignored the tear rolling down her cheek and gave him a thin smile.

              “Come on, Castiel.” She said softly. “You can’t soothe me with talk about God; not anymore. I know you lost faith years ago.”

              Now, Castiel dropped his gaze, a guilty tilt to his mouth. As kids, there would be nights where Anna would refuse to go to sleep until Castiel read her something from the family’s old bible or her collection of psalms. _I like his voice best,_ she’d said. _Words sound better when Castiel says them._

              “Why are you asking me this, Anna?” Castiel tilted his head at her. “I thought you were adjusting.”

              “I am. I was. But…” Anna paused, passing a hand over her mouth, as if debating whether she should say what she’s planning to. Castiel narrows his eyes.

              “But what?”

              Anna took a breath, watching Gabriel and Hael jostle and tease each other across the room. “I heard dad talking on the phone this morning. He was in his study – I don’t think anyone was supposed to hear.”

              A chilled feeling ran down Castiel’s spine. “What did he say?”

              Anna shook her head, turning her wide eyes on him. “I don’t know. But he was… Castiel, it sounded like he’s looking for someone. Like he’s tracking someone down, and they were giving him leads.”

              “That doesn’t make any sense. Who would dad be…” Castiel frowned, but as the words left his mouth, his face went blank and his voice trailed off. Slowly, the colour leeched from his skin, leaving him ashen.

               Anna nodded. “I think Luke’s in Vancouver. I think dad came here to find him.”  

 


	3. Hope

                  Dean could still remember what John had said, when Dean told him the LAPD was issuing mandatory rehab. The man had been sitting ramrod straight in his hospital bed, everything about his posture screaming _I don’t want to be here, dammit._ If John had taught his boys anything, it was that a man should be able to take care of himself.

                 Dean had already given him the details: the LAPD was paying for six months at the best rehab center in North America. It was both the least and most they could do. John had a metal of valor, but no one on the force would work with him anymore.

                 John had, for all intents and purposes, given up.

                “Fine.”

                “It’s in Canada, Dad.” Dean argued, still desperate to keep his broken family rooted. “You really want to up and move?”

                 John had looked out the window at the Los Angeles smog.

                “It’s far from here.”

                Now, Dean blew a cloud of smoke that reflected the silver light from a park lamp. In the distance, the downtown streets of Vancouver hummed. He was almost finished the joint but in his pocket was another.

                The night was still and thick: autumn rain hung heavy in clouds that wouldn’t let it fall. The smoke from Dean’s joint hung suspended in the air around him, not a breath of wind to blow it away.

                The park was the closest thing to solitude Dean had found. And it wasn’t even nice. The playground in the far corner was small and a little rundown, and the trees weren’t particularly large, though they still held their fall colours. Despite a paved walkway the grass was trampled and faded. It was small: an empty space between Dean’s apartment building and a church with brick walls.

                It was almost eleven o’clock. Dean was the only one around, but for once the solitude felt more like isolation. He pulled John’s leather jacket around himself a little tighter as he walked, ambling slowly down the park’s path toward the church.

                He never knew why, but he liked to look at it. In a different time, Dean’s Sunday mornings were spent in the stiff embrace of a church pew. That custom had dropped off quickly after Mary died.

                The stained-glass windows of this church reminded Dean of her. Angels spread ivory arms up to the heavens; rays of sunlight were thick beams of yellow glass, always bright despite the darker hours.

                Dean had never seen the inside of the church. He didn’t really want to.

                Instead, he was content to lean against a tree that stood facing the church’s side walls and stare morosely at the figures in the windows.

 

*

 

                Castiel usually chose a seat at the back. Just like in school, and in waiting rooms and movie theatres. A younger Castiel would have refused to sit anywhere but within reach of the altar’s comforting light, but he surrounded himself in darkness here now, too. The dimmed lights from the altar didn’t reach him in the last pew.

                He didn’t know why he visited the church. Castiel had skipped out on mass for the past two years, when the absence of his mother’s voice in the choir became too much. Greif had demolished Chuck; he didn’t have the energy to argue with his son.

               These late-night visits, though, were new. Castiel blamed the move. He’d had his insomnia under control back in Missoula, but it came back tenfold their first night in Vancouver. The new house was unfamiliar: an old wartime two-story attached to the church, with drafts that whistled through the windowpanes and raindrops that snuck through the shingles.

               The church was familiar. It was bigger than the one in Missoula, and older, but the idea was the same: nave, apse, altar. The air smelled like incense and dust, and rung with silence; as if echoing organ chords that had long stopped playing.

               Castiel’s head was bowed, but he didn’t pray. Instead he stared at where his Chuck Taylors scuffed at the floor.

               Eighteen days. That was how long Castiel and his family had been living in Vancouver. Over two weeks and Gabriel was still drinking too much, Anna’s drawings grew steadily sadder (which Castiel hadn’t thought was possible) and Hael had already begun to forget their mother’s name. Chuck threw himself into his work at the church, investing the non-broken parts of himself in things like the Sunday school and the local homeless shelter. It was easier than facing his kids, who Castiel knew only reflected his grief.

               Just like his father, Castiel had been hoping the move would turn things around. Maybe Gabriel could stand to be sober for longer than a day if he didn’t see reminders of his mother everywhere; maybe Anna would stop crying. Maybe Hael would stop asking when Luke would come home.

               Castiel hoped Anna was overreacting – he hoped his father wasn’t attempting to track down Luke. Castiel’s eldest brother had run away less than a month after their mother died, and hadn’t been heard from since. That wound was only beginning to numb out, especially for Anna; dragging Luke back into the equation now would only rip it open.

                And what about him? Like always, Castiel’s concerns surrounded his siblings, not himself. But the truth was, he was hoping Vancouver would be a fresh start for _him._ Maybe he could sleep through the night again, maybe he’d feel like talking, maybe he’d find a way to stand a future without her.

                None of that had happened. And as Castiel slowly raised his head, and his blue and lifeless eyes landed on the silent altar at the front of the church, he felt betrayed. Because the last time he had prayed, it’d been right before the move and he’d begged God for a fresh start.

                Muscles stiff, Castiel stood from his place in the last pew. He shuffled to the aisle and headed for the doors, turning his back on the apse that held its wooden altar and the crucifix suspended above. And he knew it was the last time he’d visit – if not ever, then at least for a while.

                Castiel pushed through the heavy doors and headed down the front steps. The street outside was deserted and streetlights cast eerie light. He knew he wouldn’t go inside yet; he was too restless, so he opted for a walk through the park instead.

                As he turned into the park, Castiel realized he’d forgotten the joint he rolled inside in his room. He cursed under his breath, telling himself he’d smoke it quickly on the back porch when he got back.

               That’s when he looked up and stopped short.

                Leaning in the shadows of a red-leafed maple tree, was the doe-eyed boy from Healing Grace. He was only about ten feet away from where Castiel stood frozen in the dim light of a lamppost.

               Castiel hated admitting that the boy had tripped him up. Going into the dispensary that first time had been intimidating enough, but Castiel had flat-out wanted to die when the boy’s green eyes caught his and his heart skipped a beat.

               He’d always had a thing for eyes, buying into that old saying about them being a window to the soul. And this boy’s eyes were like rays of sun cutting through green stained glass.

               But he’d swallowed his nerves and bought his drugs, then left without a backward glance. And if those eyes kept popping up in Castiel’s subconscious throughout the day, nobody knew but him.

               Now, his hollow heart stuttered. While Castiel could recognize that he thought those green eyes were distracting – _captivating_ – it didn’t change the fact that Castiel didn’t like strangers; never had.

               The boy didn’t look at Castiel like he was a stranger. There was a spark of recognition on his face, though his voice was a little uncertain.

               “Missoula?”

               Despite himself, Castiel’s stomach jumped. “Angeles.”

               He surprised himself when his voice didn’t shake. The guy’s face broke into a grin. Castiel watched his eyes flick up to the church, and he realized he’d more than likely seen Castiel leaving the front doors.

              “I’ve known some stoners to hang out in weird places.” The boy looked at Castiel again. “A church, though? That’s new.”

              Castiel scratched the back of his neck. “I wasn’t smoking in there or anything.”

              The boy’s eyes narrowed, like he didn’t believe him. “Right.”

             “Seriously.” Castiel said, because for some reason he didn’t want people to think he liked to blaze in churches. “I mean, I was gonna smoke out here. But I forgot the doob I rolled.”

             The words had just left Castiel’s mouth when the boy produced a thick joint from his jeans pocket.

            “You can get in on this, if you want.” He perched the joint in his mouth and looked at Castiel expectantly. Castiel glanced around the park, even though he knew no one was around.

            He looked at him again. “That’s cool?”

            There was a boyish smile. “Yeah. That’s why I offered.”

            Castiel blushed a little as he stepped away from the light of the lamppost, and into the shadows of the maple tree. There was a _click_ and a flicker of light as the boy lit the joint, then it was gone. The cherry flared red in the darkness as he took a deep inhale.

            Castiel stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling self-conscious. He was a solitary stoner; preferred getting high alone, usually while listening to music or reading a book. The only person he regularly shared sessions with was Gabriel.

            And in a way, he knew why he was making an exception for the green-eyed boy. But Castiel hated himself for it: he was certain that at this point, things like crushes and attraction weren’t what he wanted or deserved.

            Still, for whatever reason he stayed, taking the joint with slightly shaking hands as the boy passed it. Castiel was careful that their fingers didn’t touch.

            “I’m Dean, by the way.” He said, giving Castiel a friendly smile. Castiel felt himself relax a little.

            “Castiel.” He replied, bracing himself for the blank stare or confused frown. But Dean only nodded.

            “Right. I remember from your I.D.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Wasn’t sure about the pronunciation, though.”

            Castiel smiled as he took a deep toke from the joint. Hot, dry smoke hit the back of his throat but he ignored the urge to cough. He passed it back to Dean, who surprised Castiel by asking,

            “That’s an angel, right?”

            Castiel just stared at him. “You knew that?”

            “I went to a Catholic middle school.” Dean paused to toke. The smoke flitting from his mouth made his voice thicker. “There was a class called Bible Studies or some shit.”

            Castiel chuckled, noting this was the first time he didn’t have to explain his name. Dean looked up at the church again as he passed Castiel the jay.

            “So I have to ask. What’s a kid like you doing hanging out in a church on a Wednesday night?”

            Castiel tilted his head. “Kid like me?”

            Dean blushed and looked at his shoes. Castiel’s heart sped up. “Sorry. It’s just, in my experience, religious types don’t smoke.”

            “I’m not religious.” Castiel answered reflexively, because he’d started telling people that years ago – his own small, safe act of rebellion. He looked at the burning joint in his hand. “I just wanted some peace, or something.”

            He toked, keeping his eyes on the ground.

            “Did you find it?” Dean asked. Castiel looked up to find those bright green eyes watching him. He shook his head wordlessly and passed.

            “These days, things only get quiet when I’m stoned.”

            “That’s usually how it goes, yeah.” Dean chuckled then took a puff. He looked at Castiel with curious eyes; more stars in them than before. Castiel shivered. A beat of silence passed.

            “What?” He asked, when the silence became heavy.

            Dean dropped his gaze, as if just realizing he was staring. “Sorry. It’s just – usually I can tell why people do things. Why they drink, why they smoke.”

            Castiel’s stomach tightened. “Think you have me figured out, then?”

            “Not really.” Dean didn’t meet Castiel’s gaze as he passed him back the joint. It was getting harder to avoid their hands touching; the jay was getting smaller. “I have a few theories, though.”

            Castiel’s heart thudded. He’d occupied enough of Dean’s thoughts for Dean to have _theories?_

            _You’re reading too much into this,_ Castiel told himself firmly.

            “And?” He asked, forcing to keep his voice casual.

            Dean scratched his jaw nervously. “Well, you said yourself you wanted something to knock you out – so insomnia, and maybe anxiety. You didn’t have any interest in sativas. People with anxiety generally don’t.”

            Castiel blinked. “Perceptive.”

            Dean shrugged. “My old man was a cop. Sort of taught me how to read people; keep my eyes open.”

            “You sell drugs for a living, and your father’s a police officer?” Castiel cocked an eyebrow at him. “Family dinners must be tense.”

            “Hey, I’m not the only rebel here.” Dean shot back. There was a playful tilt to his mouth, but Castiel could see walls going up in those bright eyes. “Unless you don’t count fake dispensary cards as rebellious.”

            Castiel felt every pint of blood in his body drop to his feet. His voice came out small. “Oh. Shit.”

            Dean let out a barking laugh at the alarmed look on Castiel’s face. “It’s cool – I’m not gonna bust you.”

            Distrust spiked through Castiel’s body, and he narrowed his eyes. “Why wouldn’t you?”

            “Because,” Dean shrugged, still chuckling, “I was selling shit weed when I was fifteen. I’m not gonna rat a guy out for a fake dispensary card – that’s like, the epitome of douchery.”

            Castiel watched Dean for a moment, wary. The panic that had flooded his system slowly floated back to base level. He realized Dean wasn’t fucking with him; if anything, there was a look in his eyes like admiration, and curiosity.

            Castiel remembered he hadn’t passed in a while. He held the joint to Dean and before he could think, their fingers brushed. A spark of warmth flitted up Castiel’s arm, causing his whole body to tense. He glanced up at Dean and their eyes met, but then Castiel dropped his gaze immediately, feeling a blush warm his cheeks. He hoped the shadows hid it.

            Dean didn’t seem to have noticed. He placed the joint in his mouth. “So how’d you get in so good with Ash? He doesn’t give those out to just anybody.”

            Castiel rolled his eyes. “I know, he told me about fifty times. Apparently my older brother did him a favor. I don’t ask.”

            Dean exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, and passed to Castiel. “That’s probably smart. I mean, it is where Ash is involved.”

            Castiel gave a small laugh. Dean looked up at the sound, and there was a playful glint in his eyes.

            That’s when he realized Dean was different, here. Eyes now adjusted, Castiel could see the tired bruises beneath Dean’s eyes. The friendly but authoritative tone he’d had in the dispensary was gone, and in its place was a young voice that was equally parts cautious and curious. The leather jacket he wore was a few sizes too big, almost as if it wasn’t meant for him.

            The Dean he’d seen at the dispensary was a mask, or at the least, a carefully fabricated version of the real thing. And this intuition burned at Castiel, suddenly craving to know the real Dean without knowing why he cared.

            A short silence had fallen between them again. Dean held Castiel’s stare, until green finally dropped from blue, and Dean rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.

            Castiel took a deep inhale, feeling the smoke burn at his lungs until his eyes watered. He didn’t cough, just let the smoke curl past his lips. His mind felt heavy.

            “This is good.” He said, nodding to the joint as he passed back to Dean. Their fingers brushed again and Castiel swallowed around the involuntary spark. “What is it?”

            “Hindu Kush.” Dean smiled. “I like the heavy indicas, too.”

            Castiel’s chest felt warm. “Cool. I’ve never met anyone else who does.”

            Dean killed the joint, then tossed the roach on the ground before snuffing it with his shoe. “You should hang out at Grim more often. Most of the guys who visit Ash are kinda skeevy. You seem all right, though.”

            Castiel couldn’t help a chuckle at this almost-compliment. “Thanks?”

            Dean gave a crooked smile as he scratched his jaw, suddenly looking nervous. His eyes were fixed on the ground near Castiel’s feet, and Castiel realized Dean wouldn’t look at him for too long. Those green eyes were shifty, restless: always scanning the park periphery and darting to the shadows.

            “And I’m there pretty much all the time.” Dean lifted his gaze to skitter across Castiel’s. “I mean, if you ever wanna smoke or something.”

            The warmth in Castiel’s stomach stirred, but still some doubting voice in his mind asked: _why?_ Why would this mysterious boy want Castiel around? Dean was beautiful: undoubtedly popular with any and all kinds of ladies, with his sharp jawline and perfect lips. He was probably just being nice.

            Still Castiel nodded, because if he forgot everything else his father taught him, he could at least remember to be polite. “Yeah. That would be cool.”

            A somewhat relieved smile brightened Dean’s face. Castiel’s tolerance for the butterflies in his stomach finally ended, and he glanced over his shoulder toward the church, and the house that sat on the other side of it.

            “I should go.” Castiel returned his gaze to Dean, though he was already backing away. “But thanks for the smoke, Dean.”

            Dean’s eyes sparked. “Don’t mention it.”

            As Castiel turned and headed for the church, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and forced himself not to look back. But even after he’d rounded the church and started up his front walk, he’d repeated that name a few times over in his head. Only when saying it out loud, did he realize how much he liked the name _Dean._

 

*


	4. Fuck Ups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the encouragement/patience :) I feel like it's a slow build so far but SHIT IS 'BOUT TO GO DOWN I PROMISE
> 
> (also my mental health has been unpredictable as of late but I'll try to update as much as possible. my stories NEVER go unfinished but don't be surprised if there's a bit of a wait between chapters, i'm sorry)

            Sam and Dean’s apartment had only one bedroom, unpredictable plumbing, and windows that let in the rain. But it was theirs, and it was home. All things considered, it was better then their tiny bungalow in South Park. With John in rehab, the boys no longer had to put up with the routine disturbance of him stumbling home drunk. They didn’t have to check twice, three, four times that his gun was unloaded and locked away. Money and groceries didn’t disappear.

As Dean quietly pushed open the apartment door, he was met with dim light and hushed voices. Sam was stretched out on the living room couch, his gangly legs draping over the end. The TV was still on, playing some late-night reality show, and Sam’s laptop sat closed on the coffee table. His schoolbooks were still open beside it, but Sam was dead to the world: his quiet snores could be heard just above the TV.

Dean kicked off his shoes and locked the door. He walked quietly around the couch and turned off the TV, glancing at Sam as he did.

Guilt settled in his stomach. He’d avoided his brother all day. After his shift at Healing Grace ended, Dean had killed a few hours getting baked with Victor and Benny. Then he’d driven Baby around for a while, but not too long because he knew he couldn’t afford the gas. Then he’d wound up at the park.

            It didn’t matter how much Sam and John used to argue. Dean knew John’s prolonged stay would eat away at Sam; he’d been hoping to be back in the States before graduation.

            Telling himself he’d break the news to the kid tomorrow, Dean retreated to the bedroom just off the kitchen. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dropped it on the nightstand, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

            His cell screen lit up, glaring and bright in the darkness of his bedroom. Victor’s name flashed above a text, and Dean swiped it off the stand.

 

_Victor: Got a thing at Funky’s tomorrow. You in?_

 

            A strange feeling settled over Dean’s skin – an itch like unease, but also adrenaline. He put the phone back down and looked at it pensively.

Funky’s was a pool hall nestled beneath a hostel on East Hastings; a dingy, rough place that served as a front for a chapter of bikers. Victor didn’t hang there often, but when he did, it was strictly business. Though only in his mid-twenties, the guy supported two sisters and a nephew; often, his paychecks from Healing Grace weren’t enough. Victor sold ecstasy on the side to make things work, and his suppliers did their business from one of Funky’s back rooms.

Dean had been in that back room exactly once, after the LAPD had stopped paying for John’s rehab. Dean was desperate, and Victor had talked him into a one-time job: selling Molly on the UBC campus for spring break.

            Dean had made a killing; enough to pay for John’s treatment as well as another year’s worth of plates on the Impala. Dean had made reasonable cash dealing weed as a teenager, but this was a new ball game: Molly’s biggest fans were college girls, and they _loved_ buying Molly from Dean. It took hardly any flirting to get them to double their order. Dean felt sort of bad, but the payoff was too nice.

            After that, Victor routinely invited Dean to get in on business at Funky’s. But he’d always declined. The heat from the cops, plus knowing he could possibly cause some poor girl’s OD, wasn’t something he wanted on his conscience. Once was fine; it was forgivable, given the circumstances. But it wasn’t something he wanted to be involved with.

            Apparently, though, Dean didn’t have a choice. November’s rent would be due in just a couple of weeks, and with that, the first bill from John’s rehab. Currently, Dean had enough money to his name to buy another week’s worth of groceries and weed, and that was it. He’d be coasting on fumes until payday.

            Grinding his teeth, Dean picked the phone back up and typed a reply.

 

_Dean: I’m in._

 

*

 

           “You know what? October is _great._ ” Gabriel punched his thumb into the top of a tall boy. It hissed as it opened. “October marks the beginning of the Holiday Drinking Season.”

           Castiel glanced at his brother from his laptop screen. “Gabe, you dragged me here under the condition you were going to do homework.”

           “We’ve been out of school, what, an hour? Cut me some slack, _Dad._ ” Gabriel brought the can to his lips.

          “Nobody will be cutting you anything, if you fail to graduate _twice._ ” Castiel replied in clipped tones.

          They sat at the counter of Grim Reefer, and Castiel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He’d never been in the smoking lounge before, but Gabriel looked right at home. His schoolbooks spread out, forgotten on the counter and his jacket had settled on the rungs of the stool’s legs.

           Ash ambled in from the back with a fat joint hanging from his mouth. His face soured when he saw the can of Colt 45 in Gabriel’s hand. “Dude, come on. You know there’s no liquor allowed in here.”

           Gabriel didn’t look sorry, and Ash just reached behind the till and produced an empty can of Arizona iced tea with the bottom cut out. He slid it over Gabriel’s can, the Colt 45 logo disappearing beneath the Arizona one.

           “All right.” Ash nodded. “At ease.”

            Gabriel smiled and took another swig. Castiel just glared at him, his patience reaching its end. Gabriel noticed, and he lowered the can slowly as he fixed an innocent look on his face.

           “What?”

            Castiel took a breath. “I’m just trying to figure out why you’d rather spend your time drinking instead of trying to graduate. You hate school, Gabriel. Do you want to spend another year there?”

            “Relax, _Jesus.”_ Gabriel put the can onto the counter with a _thump._ “I’m just pre-gaming. I retain information better when I’m at least two drinks in.”

             Castiel’s face darkened. He opened his mouth to reply that _this isn’t a joke, Gabriel,_ but stopped when Ash clapped him on the shoulder.

             “Come on, it’s only October, man.” He took the joint from his mouth and passed it to Castiel. “You can be a hard ass in the spring.”

             Castiel gave Gabriel one last look, but he let it go. Mostly because while he could bicker with Gabriel until the cows came home, he didn’t want to do it in a public place. He toked and grudgingly passed the jay to Gabriel, then turned his attention back to his laptop.

             Really, he was being a hypocrite. Because there was no homework being done on Castiel’s computer: his chemistry lab was forgotten in the tabs, as well as his research for a history paper. Instead, he was scouring through every social media site he thought Luke might be on.

             His old accounts lay forgotten, just like when Castiel had stopped checking months ago. Any information offered to Castiel was limited (Luke had “un-friended” everyone in his family) and the info he did get, was dated. Luke’s Facebook page still showed his current city as Missoula, and his profile picture was still that snapshot of him helping Gabriel do a keg stand (May long weekend, three years ago).

            Castiel tried searching for different names. The eldest Milton had decided to be “Luke” over his parents’ given “Lucifer”; it was possible (even probable) he’d change his name again. But though Castiel searched for a “Luc”, “Luce” and even “Luci”, combined with “Milton” and their mother’s maiden name (“Novak”), he found nothing.

            He gave up the search about twenty minutes later. Gabriel had switched out his first beer for a second; Ash was showing him how to roll an “L” joint. The lounge was quiet. The fading daylight outside was still bright, so mostly everyone was smoking outside.

            Holding his breath, Castiel cautiously lifted his eyes to the doorway on the other side of the room. Through it he could see the front counter of Healing Grace. The jars of herb sat sentinel on their shelves, and a short girl with dark hair leaned against the till, her eyes on her cell phone.

            Castiel had been secretly checking the doorway since he and Gabriel arrived. The dark-haired girl was the only person he’d seen, but now Castiel watched as a taller figure appeared around the counter beside her: Dean.

            Castiel’s heart skipped, and he cursed himself for letting Gabriel drag him to the lounge. He’d hoped it was a little more _separate_ from Healing Grace; not practically sharing a living room. And he’d been hoping to stomp down his attraction to Dean before having to see him again.

            Now, though, his mind was far from stomping of any kind. Dean’s face was lit up with an excited smile, mouth wide and grinning as he talked with the dark-haired girl. Sunlight spilled in from the windows and flecked his brown hair with gold.

            “Yo! Cassie!” Gabriel snapped his fingers in front of his brother’s face. He jumped.

            “What?”

            “I’ve been trying to pass for about five minutes, man.” Ash drawled, and Castiel realized he was attempting to pass him a joint.

            “Oh. Sorry.” He muttered, taking it. “Zoned out.”

            Castiel watched Gabriel’s eyes flicker to the doorway, where the girl and Dean still stood. He raised an eyebrow at Castiel, who felt his face flush red. He didn’t meet his brother’s gaze as he passed him the joint.

            “You need to take a break, man.” Ash leaned on the counter. “Whatever homework you have on here is frying your brain.”

             Before Castiel could stop him, Ash reached over and swiveled Castiel’s laptop around to face him and Gabriel.

             “Holy social media, batman!” Gabriel said with mock indignation, his eyes taking in the Facebook page still open on the screen. His expression slipped when he saw the familiar name and display picture.

             “Why are you internet-stalking Luke?” He frowned, no teasing in his tone now. Ash narrowed his eyes at the display picture and pulled the laptop a little closer.

              “I was just checking up.” Castiel hedged, not meeting Gabriel’s stare. “For Anna. She seems to be under the impression he’s in Vancouver, and dad came to find him.”

              “That’s ridiculous.” Gabriel shook his head. “Luke would run away to California. Or Vegas.”

              “No.” Castiel argued. “ _You_ would run away to Vegas.”

              “Whatever. Point: not Canada.” Gabriel drained his beer. “Anna’s just overreacting.”

               Castiel’s face darkened. Ash swiveled the laptop back to them and pointed at it.

               “I know this kid.” He said. Gabriel and Castiel just stared at him.

              “Say what now?” Gabriel’s voice came out high.

              “Luke, right?” Ash stubbed his joint in an ashtray. “He’s one of Gordon’s boys.”

              Gabriel leaned forward. “ _Gordon_ Gordon?”

              “Who?” Castiel frowned.

              Ash glanced around the lounge. The only people there now were a couple of hippies playing gin by the front windows.

              “He’s well connected.” Ash said cryptically, squinting his bloodshot eyes at Castiel. “Sells drugs to most of the students in this city. Gordon’s got guys posted up at UBC, SFU, Capilano…”

              “Luke is one of Gordon’s dealers?” Gabriel pointed at the Facebook picture. “That kid. Big ears, stupid smile, blonde hair. Him right there. He works for Gordon?”

              Ash looked between the picture and Gabriel. “Yeah. I mean, I’m at least 95% sure. If not, then the likeness and the name are a pretty weird coincidence.”

              “How long have you known him?” Castiel asked, narrowing his eyes at Ash.

              “Shit. Not long.” Ash scratched his chin. “I say I noticed him around with Gordie about a year ago? Year and a half?”

              “He give a last name?” Gabriel asked.

              “Never mentioned one.” Ash shook his head. “Just ‘Luke’. First name’s all you need to be a drug dealer. That and a phone number.”

              Castiel felt his heart plummet. He exchanged a look with Gabriel.

              “Okay. So what do we do?” Gabriel asked.

              “Nothing.” Castiel reached over and closed his laptop. “Just because he’s here, doesn’t mean he’ll let Dad find him. I say we stay out of it.”

              “What about Anna?” Gabriel pressed. “She’s not gonna let it go. We’re just going to pretend like we don’t know anything?”

              “Yes.” Castiel shoved his laptop in his school bag.

              “Cas, that’s ridiculous.” Gabriel’s voice was getting louder. “We can’t lie to her face - ”

              “Oh, because you don’t already?” Castiel straightened to glare at him. “Pretending you’re sober, pretending you care about school - ”

              “Whatever!” Gabriel argued. “Who cares about that shit? This is lying about something that _matters.”_

              “So what do you suggest?” Castiel demanded. “Get Anna’s hopes up, when there’s no sign at all that Luke has changed?”

              “You don’t know that - ”

              “He’s dealing drugs!” Castiel gestured to Ash, who wore a _leave me out of it_ expression. Gabriel fell silent, and Castiel took a breath. “He didn’t want anything to do with us before, why would he now?”

              Gabriel looked at Castiel with hard eyes, who met his gaze without blinking. Then, Gabriel grabbed his beer and pushed away from the counter. He didn’t bother with his schoolbooks or jacket, just walked to the front door and pushed through it, then disappeared down the street.

              Castiel sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

              “Damn.” Ash muttered.

              “Sorry.”

              “No, it’s cool.” Ash shrugged. “Believe me, in this place – I’ve seen worse.”

              Castiel nodded and eyed Gabriel’s things.

              “He’ll probably be back.” Ash supplied, sensing Castiel’s thoughts. “The rest of his six pack’s in the fridge.”

              Castiel cringed. “Right.”

 

*

 

            The sunlight was warm on Dean’s arms as he pulled up the sleeves of his flannel. He hadn’t driven to work that morning; the day was too sunny and mild, and Dean knew he had to save Baby’s gas for things like groceries and driving to places the transit system didn’t reach. Their apartment was only a fifteen-minute walk from the dispensary.

            Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked through the back alley behind Healing Grace and Grim. It wasn’t even a shortcut; really, it made Dean’s walk a little longer. But he was reluctant to go home, because he knew Sam would be there waiting for him, expecting news about John. Dean had avoided the topic that morning; just badgered Sam about his AP Physics homework while rushing him out the door (they’d both slept in).

            Now, tension settled into Dean’s muscles.

            Sometimes, he’d daydream about hitting the road. He’d envision a quiet morning where he’d pack the Impala with nothing but a box of old cassettes, a change of clothes, and a cooler full of beer. He’d leave money for Sam and John, and maybe a note. And then he’d drive her off into the distance, finally a soldier for no one; no one to answer to but the road beneath him and his Baby…

            Dean came to the mouth of the alley. He was so lost in his vision of freedom that he turned sharply onto the sidewalk without looking; he walked promptly into something in motion, and mostly solid. Something clattered to the sidewalk.

            “Whoa.” Dean stepped back, “Sorry.”

            “It’s all right.” Bright blue eyes blinked at Dean, and then Castiel bent down to retrieve the books that had dropped from his arms. Dean helped him. “I didn’t see you, either.”

            Dean’s heart hammered, but he ignored it. He and Castiel straightened, and Dean passed him a handful of notebooks. They were labeled _AP Literature_ and _Bio-Chem_.

            “Thank you.” Castiel didn’t meet Dean’s gaze as he took the books.

            “Don’t mention it.” Dean appraised Castiel in what he desperately hoped was a very bro-like way. He’d noticed the kid hanging in the lounge with Ash and that kid Gabriel, and thought he’d heard arguing voices coming from there earlier. Dean had poked his head through the doorway to check it out (he often acted as bouncer for Ash, who had to watch the counter while Dean shoved assholes out the door) but he’d only seen Gabriel storming out the front. Castiel and Ash had kept talking, and Dean stayed out of it.

            Now, Dean noticed that Castiel’s eyes were hard and distracted. His jaw was bunched, and his movements were stiff as he shoved his books into his backpack, then threw it over his shoulder again.

            The kid emanated _stress._

            Dean’s shoulders stooped in sympathy. He glanced in the direction of his building, recalling Castiel appearing in the park by his house.

            “Heading that way?” He asked, tilting his head in that direction. Castiel nodded. “Cool. Me too.”

            Dean started walking. Castiel hesitated, and then fell into step beside him. Dean noticed they were practically the same height, whatever their age difference was.

            “So how old are you, actually?” He asked, glancing at the backpack holding Castiel’s books. Castiel’s cheeks coloured but he answered,

            “Seventeen.”

            Dean nodded. A few beats of silence passed; their shoes scuffed the ground. “Can I ask you a question?”

            Castiel glanced at him, fear and apprehension in his eyes. “All right.”

            Dean scratched his jaw with his knuckles. “You’re obviously in high school. And every high school has at least one drug dealer.”

            Castiel tilted his head. “That’s not a question.”

            “Why not just buy pot in the school parking lot like the rest of your friends?” Dean shrugged. “Why go through the trouble to get the fake cards?”

            Dean watched Castiel’s jaw bunch. Blue eyes slid over to Dean’s and then skittered away again.

            “I don’t like drug dealers.” He said. Dean felt something hard and cold drop into his stomach, though he wasn’t sure why. “The dirty baggies, trading money in cars, the awkward texts. Makes me feel like a greasy criminal.”

            “Well, you _are_ a criminal.” Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets again. “Greasy or not. Especially with the fake cards.”

            Castiel took a short breath. “It’s different. If -”

            He broke off, frustrated, and Dean’s eyebrows picked up. He’d only been curious, but apparently this was a touchy subject for Castiel. He watched the kid’s already stormy face grow darker.

            “If I got busted and my father were to find out, at least this way…” Castiel hesitated, finding the words. “At least he’d know that I was _trying_ to do the legit thing. That I wasn’t giving money to drug dealers and gangsters; that I’m nothing like…”

            Castiel’s voice dropped off, and this time, he didn’t continue. His blush deepened and they just kept walking, their legs matching stride.

            Dean wanted to ask _like who,_ but he knew he couldn’t.

            “It’s okay, I get it.” He said after a moment. “Family. It can get pretty fucked.”

            Castiel gave a few short nods. He looked at Dean. “Do your parents know you smoke?”

            “It’s just my old man.” Dean replied cautiously. He didn’t like getting personal, but the kid looked so troubled and Dean wanted to help him feel better. “And yeah. He doesn’t like it, but he puts up with it, mostly cause I think he's given up on me. So long as I don’t get Sam involved, he’s fine.”

            Castiel glanced at him questioningly.

            “My kid brother.” Dean supplied. He narrowed his eyes at Castiel, suddenly realizing he and Sam were the same age. He pushed back that thought.

            “So Sam doesn’t smoke?”

            “Mostly? No.” Dean’s voice was guilty. “Sometimes it helps him study. I don’t let him go overboard, though.”

            “You don’t think that’s hypocritical of you?” Castiel challenged. Dean looked for cars as they crossed the street.

            “Not really. I’d smoke him up more if there was someone else to keep him in line, but there’s not.”

            Castiel squinted at him. “What about your dad?”

            Dean took a breath. “Well, he’s busy starring in Daddy Goes to Rehab: Part Three.”

            Castiel paled. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be.” Dean shrugged it off. “It’s not the end of the world. I mean, we manage pretty fine on our own.”

            Castiel nodded, looking like he understood.

            “So, I’m taking it your parents don’t know you smoke?” Dean hedged, wanting to keep him talking. Castiel swallowed.

            “It’s just my dad, too. And no, he doesn’t know. I’m fairly certain it would kill him.”

            Dean blinked at this statement and Castiel’s grave voice as he said it. “He’s pretty straight-laced, huh?”

            Castiel’s mouth twisted bitterly. “He’s a pastor.”

            Dean felt his eyes widen. “Yikes.”

            “It’s not that he’s really strict, or anything.” Castiel went on. “He’s actually pretty progressive. Under other circumstances, he might have been able to be okay with it.”

            “But…” Dean prompted. Castiel’s face darkened further.

            “I had an older brother. He went off the rails a while ago and disappeared.” He explained cryptically. “Sort of ruined it for the rest of us.”

            “Shit. I’m sorry, man.”

            Castiel’s mouth lifted in an almost-smile. “Don’t be.”

            They were nearing the park and Dean’s apartment building, and the church came into view. Something clicked in Dean’s mind.

            “Oh shit, it makes so much more sense now.” He said, grinning. They stopped and Castiel looked at him questioningly. “Why you were hanging out in that church.”

            Castiel blushed again.

            “Don’t look so embarrassed, man.” Dean punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Pastor’s son _and_ midnight toker? You’re, like, an enigma.”

            “I don’t feel like an enigma.” Castiel glared at the sidewalk. “I think the words you’re looking for are Fuck Up.”

            Dean’s brow creased in sympathy, but he nodded. “All right. That’s my club, so I can vouch that it’s pretty awesome.”

            Now, Castiel smiled, and he rolled his eyes a little at Dean’s lame humor. Dean’s heart trilled.

            “I’m this way.” He nodded his head to his building. “But I’ll see you around?”

            Dean held his fist out and Castiel bumped his knuckles against his.

            “Yeah.” He answered. Dean noticed his eyes were a little brighter than before. “See you around.”

            They turned and went their separate ways. Dean fumbled in his pocket for his apartment keys, but he still managed to glance over his shoulder at Castiel’s retreating figure.


	5. Civil Wars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the slow updates you guys, my life has been hectic!
> 
> I honestly had no idea how a marijuana-based AU would be received but I'm loving that you guys are liking it. I feel like it's still slow going but everything picks up speed really soon! Thanks so much for reading :)

 

            Dean didn’t know what was louder: the roar of Baby’s engine, or the country air howling in through the open windows. There was nothing surrounding him but pure, beautiful, open road. The rising sun bathed the landscape in heavy orange light. Nobody sat in the back or in the passenger seat: he was completely alone. He didn’t know where John or Sam were, but something inside of him told him it was okay; they were safe, and they didn’t need him anymore.

            Thinking it was high time for a smoke, Dean pulled over to the side of the road and parked Baby near the edge of a quarry. He stepped out and leaned against the grill, tossing the keys a little in his hand.

            The keys became a joint. He perched it between his lips and sparked the lighter that was already in his hand. He closed his eyes as he inhaled.

            “How many miles have we driven?” A low, young voice cut through the quiet. Dean opened his eyes and saw Castiel leaning against the grill beside him. The kid was standing so close, Dean could feel their shoulders brush. But he didn’t mind it. Here, it felt natural. He thought for a moment.

            “Two hundred and fifty.” He answered, blowing smoke. Castiel smiled.

            “Where are we going to go?”

            Dean shrugged, glancing back at the open road. “Wherever we want.”

            He reached down and took Castiel’s hand; their fingers entwined easily, as if they’d done it a hundred times before. He pulled Castiel closer and closed his eyes to the sun rise, feeling the boy’s lips brush with warmth against his…

            With a sharp inhale, Dean’s eyes snapped open and his muscles went stiff. The darkness of his room was like a cloak: heavy and encumbering after the bright details of his dream. He took in the half-closed bedroom door, the blank walls and his cell sitting on the bedside table.

            _It was just a dream,_ he told himself groggily. _A freaky, random dream._

            Groaning a little, Dean reached out and pressed the button on his phone. The time read 5:04.

            Groaning more, Dean turned over and pulled his blankets over his head. Maybe, if he fell back asleep fast enough, he’d forget about the dream all together…

            His heart was beating a little too fast. He could still smell Baby’s interior, and the dusty country air. He’d dreamt about hitting the road before, but in those dreams he was always alone and he always _stayed_ that way. But for some reason, his fucked up subconscious decided to throw a random guy into the dream with him.

            But _was_ Castiel random? Dean hadn’t even questioned his presence in the dream; it had felt ordinary, almost expected. He thought of how their fingers had felt, tangling together as Castiel leaned toward him…

            A rush of want and frustration rose up in Dean, and he threw his blankets off. He was better than this; dreams were irrational, dammit, and he wasn’t going to let one get under his skin. But he knew he wasn’t going to get any more sleep, either, so he decided to get up and walk to the early-morning grocery store down the street.

            He had to break the news to Sam about John that morning. Dean hoped a decent homemade breakfast might cushion the blow, but he knew he was shitting himself.

            The day was not off to a good start.

 

*

 

            Breakfasts at the Novak house were loud, and that was solely Hael’s doing. The youngest Novak liked to spend her mornings singing outrageously loud. If it wasn’t a hymn she’d learned at Sunday school, it was some tune or other she picked up from school.

            That morning, Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose as Hael belted out some rhyme that involved a woman named Miss Mary, who had a steamboat.

            “Hael, honey, the neighbors are going to call in a noise complaint again.” Chuck admonished gently as he placed a glass of orange juice in front of her. Hael was practically squirming in her chair at the kitchen table, and Anna pursed her lips, her last-minute homework half-done beside her. Castiel watched from the safety of the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee warming his hands.

            “I don’t know what that is.” Hael told their father.

            “It means the neighbors have _complained,”_ Gabriel entered the kitchen, “About your _noise._ As have I.”

            Gabriel looked like shit. His eyes had dark shadows and his skin was sallow; he avoided Castiel’s gaze as he b-lined for the coffee maker.

            “Wow, Gabe.” Anna piped up, narrowing her eyes at Gabriel, “Going for Most Class Time Spent Hungover in the yearbook?”

            “That’s right, kiddo.” Gabriel poured his coffee. “I’m about a liquor store away.”

            “Gabriel.” Chuck’s admonishment was less gentle, now. He looked at his son with hard, unimpressed eyes. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know what time you came home last night.”

            “Good, then I don’t have to pretend to be well-rested.” Gabriel took a gulp of coffee.

            “Enough.” Chuck’s jaw bunched. He was a shorter man, usually soft-spoken with an inclination for jokes. That humor was becoming less common, now. “I won’t tolerate any more substance abuse in this house. Of any kind.”

            His eyes slid from Gabriel to rest on Castiel, and Castiel paled.

            “Understood?” Chuck tested. The boys nodded, though they both knew it was an empty promise. Their father gave them a stern look before turning to Hael.

            “Go brush your teeth, girls.” He said tiredly. “I have to get to the church, and you have school.”

            Hael pouted and slid off the kitchen chair, groaning dramatically.

            “We _always_ have to leave when you and Gabe fight.”

            “We’re not fighting.” Chuck countered calmly, “Dad’s just putting his foot down.”

            Castiel glanced at Gabriel, who rolled his eyes. Anna threw them an annoyed look, then ushered Hael out of the kitchen. Once they were gone Chuck sighed and regarded his sons warily.

            “I can’t control what you boys do outside of this house.” His voice was tired and disappointed. “And I can’t pretend I don’t know about it. But I have a say as to what happens in this family.”

            There was an awkward beat, because this was something Chuck had liked to say when lecturing Luke. Gabriel’s face soured.

            “Gabriel, no more being intoxicated or hungover around your younger sisters. They look up to you.”

            Gabriel snorted. Castiel elbowed him.

            “And Castiel,” Chuck looked at his youngest son. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the red eyes and skunky sweaters.”

            Castiel ducked his head. Gabriel snickered.

            “If you insist on smoking with friends, fine. Though I’d prefer you didn’t.” Chuck scratched his beard. “But if I find any drugs in this house, there will be serious consequences. The last thing I need is Anna getting into that stuff, or good forbid, Hael.”

            Castiel understood then, that Chuck’s grudging allowance of their delinquency was some form of giving up. He’d lost hope for his sons; now, his concern was protecting his daughters.

            “Are we clear?” Chuck looked between his sons.

            Though bitterness sat heavy in his stomach, Castiel nodded again. Gabriel gave a tight smile, even if there was no warmth there.

            “Crystal.”

 

*

 

            Sam’s laptop took up almost all the space at their tiny kitchen table. Dean pushed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast beside it.

            “Put that away and eat.” He said, “You can finish your homework two minutes before class, like normal kids.”

            Sam pursed his lips and reluctantly closed his laptop.

            “You’re not eating?” He asked, sliding the computer into the bag by his feet. Dean glanced at the time on the stove: Sam had to be at school in twenty minutes.

            “I’m not hungry yet.” Dean shrugged. “I’ll grab something at work.”

            He busied himself with piling dirty dishes in the sink, avoiding Sam’s gaze. Being jolted from sleep that morning had set tension into his muscles, and the now-healed bullet wound that plagued his shoulder was caught in a snarl. It smarted each time he breathed too deep. The pain sent nausea to his gut, and Dean knew he wouldn’t have an appetite until he got the munchies.

            Not that he would admit any of this to Sam. The kid was clearing his plate like an overgrown puppy, one eye on the cell that sat by his elbow. Probably watching for a text from Ruby. He looked normal, like an average teenage kid whose only concerns were his chemistry grades and getting alcohol on the weekends…

            “Listen, Sammy…” Dean’s heart was already heavy, guilty about the blow he was about to deal. “We need to talk about Dad.”

            Sam froze. The brothers looked at each other, brown eyes searching green, and Sam knew everything. That’s how it had always been for them: Dean would take the brunt of their pain and loss and trauma, try his hardest to internalize it and make it disappear, even as Sam felt it roll off his brother in waves.

            “He’s not getting out.” The younger Winchester intoned, disappointment in his voice. Dean sighed.

            “Not _yet._ ”

            Sam dropped his fork and pushed his plate away. The eggs were only halfway eaten; the toast sat untouched.

            “Another six months?” He asked. Dean hesitated and then nodded.

            Sam wouldn’t look his brother in the eye. His face was a stiff, composed mask, just how it always was when Sam was hurt.

            “Fine.” He said shortly, standing up and bringing his plate of food to the counter. He set it beside the sink.

            “Sam…” Dean started, prepared to be Good Cop to his dad’s Absentee Drunk Cop.

            “No - save it.” Sam’s voice was hard and biting; how it usually sounded, when he was talking about John. “You don’t have to make excuses for him.”

            “What _excuses_?” Dean was indignant. “You can’t really put a time limit on rehab.”

            Sam leaned his palms against the counter and stared morosely out the kitchen window. The view showed the brick wall of the building next door.

            “Come on, Sam.” Dean gave him a clap on the shoulder. “I’m doing the best I can, here.”

            “I know you are, Dean, that’s the point.” Sam turned to him. “You bust your ass to make rent, to buy food, to keep the Impala running. And none of it is actually your responsibility.”

            “Of course it is.” Dean argued automatically.

            “No, it’s _his.”_ Sam almost snarled. “Dammit, Dean, you’re twenty-two. You should be halfway through a degree right now, not the guardian of a teenager.”

            “Who cares? I never wanted to go to college, anyway.” Dean wasn’t sure if this was true, but he was sure it didn’t matter. “Who wants to go to a school with no auto-mechanics class?”

            Sam let out a growl of frustration and turned on his brother. “I’m serious! Aren’t you mad?”

            Dean blinked, taken aback. Sam took a step toward him.

            “We had to leave our home, our friends. We’ve been totally uprooted and he promised us we’d get to go back; that I’d graduate in L.A. and you’d get your job back at the garage. But we’ve lost an entire year here. Aren’t you _mad_?”

            “ _Yes_ , all right – I’m freaking pissed, all the time!” Dean shot back, his resolve finally snapping. “But I don’t have a say. We just gotta do the best we can, with what we have.” Dean looked around at their shitty apartment. “This is what we have.”

            Sam let out a bitter laugh, glaring at the apartment with barely concealed hatred. He shook his head a little as he picked up his backpack and headed for the door.

            “Where are you going?” Dean asked stupidly.

            “I can’t be here.” Sam threw over his shoulder.

            “I’m driving you to school - ”

            “Ruby will pick me up.” Sam yanked open the door and then disappeared through it. It closed softer than Dean was expecting.

            With Sam gone, the silence in the apartment was deafening. Dean just stood, trying to calm the ache in his heart before moving to scrape Sam’s breakfast into the trash.

 

*

 

            “Oh, it feels _so_ good not to be the only black sheep left in this family.” Gabriel grinned smugly from where he leaned in their bedroom doorway. “I totally knew dad was wise to your stoner ways. Not even the precious Castiel is a Golden Child anymore.”

            Castiel sighed tiredly. “Would you shut up?”

            Gabriel thought about that. “No, that doesn’t sound like me.”

            Rolling his eyes, Castiel finished stuffing his stash into the bottom of his backpack. He pulled at the zippers.

            “I still think you’re being paranoid.” Gabriel looked at his fingernails.

            “Gabe, he basically read us the riot act.” Castiel threw the backpack over his shoulder. “I’d put money on Dad searching our room the second we leave. From now on, wherever I go, my stash goes.”

            Gabriel nodded. “Well, that’s probably a good thing, because you and I are going on an adventure after school today.”

            Castiel regarded his brother warily. “Elaborate, please.”

            “Ash knows about a party. Luke is gonna be there.” Gabriel said this nonchalantly, but Castiel felt his stomach drop to his feet.

            “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

            “Why wouldn’t it be?”

            “Because when Luke ran away, he left a note signed _fuck you all._ ” Castiel reminded him bitterly. Gabriel laughed.

            “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

            Castiel shook his head, moving past Gabriel and out to the hallway. Gabriel followed.

            “We’re not finding Luke. That’s a horrible idea.” Castiel tried to mimic his father’s stern voice, though he wasn’t sure why – it’s not like Gabriel listened to that, either.

            “We’re not. We’re just going to a party.” Gabriel rallied. “Where Luke happens to be.”

            “Again: horrible idea.” Castiel started down the stairs.

            “Oh, come on, Cassie.” Gabriel whined, and Castiel bristled at the old nickname. “You know that I’ll go without you anyways. But I need you there – I need a lieutenant, man.”       

            Gabriel put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder and they stopped. Gabriel was standing on a step above Castiel, so they were the same height for once. Castiel searched his brother’s hazel eyes. They were still a little cloudy and hungover, but were mostly bright with excitement – maybe hope.

            “All right.” Castiel relented. “But you’re _my_ lieutenant. The shots should be called by someone relatively sober.”

            Gabriel straightened, gave his foot a little stomp and saluted.

 

*

 


	6. Affiliates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow - yes, I'm back, and I'm so sorry I went AWOL! 
> 
> Since I last updated, my mental health took a serious dive and I had to take time off to deal with some intense PTSD shit. This fic was on my mind the entire time, and I appreciate so much the comments and kudos I've gotten in the meantime. You're all wonderful.
> 
> I'm feeling much better these days and like I am finding my momentum again. I was able to update and add a new chapter, and if my mental health works with me, I'll be able to write and update wayyy more regularly. 
> 
> Rest assured - no fic of mine shall go unfinished! And things are only getting started...

        “Wild night?” Tessa’s dark eyebrow arched up to her hairline. Dean hunched over the counter, trying to rub the knot out of his shoulder. He knew there were dark shadows under his bleary eyes, and his slight scruff didn’t help. He threw Tessa a look that hopefully communicated he wasn’t in the mood.  
  
        She must have got it; her sharp features softened. “Shoulder again?”  
  
        “Nope. I’m peachy.” Dean straightened. He didn’t tell many people about the wound in his shoulder – it wasn’t exactly a fun story – but at work, he got extra perks in order to manage the pain. Still, he was never comfortable about admitting he needed those perks.  
  
        Tessa pulled a dime bag with four honey-coloured capsules out of her pocket. She held them up to the light.  
  
        “Darker ones are CBD, the lighter ones are THC.” She held them out to Dean. “Either will make you feel like you’ve been having orgasms for hours, trust me.”  
  
        Dean smiled in spite of himself. “That sounds awesome, but no thanks. I got it handled.”  
  
        She looked at him dubiously and shook the baggie. There was a beat, then Dean grit his teeth and took it from her.  
  
        “Thanks.” He mumbled. He’d smoked two joints, half of Victor’s morning blunt and had one of the magic brownies that Rick brought in. Still, his shoulder twinged with each breath. He was certain his tired muscles didn’t help.  
  
         The clock read 12:23, and he was feeling that 5:00 wake up now. Sleep scratched at his eyes each time he blinked. He’d smoked sativa for once, just to perk up, but he hardly felt it.  
  
        Damn pot shop. His tolerance was through the roof; this side of two years ago, this amount of weed would have him greening out in the bathroom.  
  
        He pulled two pills out – one dark, one light – and chased them with lukewarm coffee. It wasn’t as fun or satisfying as smoking, but at least he’d be higher than an angel on Easter Sunday.  
  
        _Angels_. Dean’s mind hitched and turned to thoughts of Castiel, and the dream he’d had early that morning. He’d only just managed to stop thinking about it; between obsessing over his morning argument with Sam and enduring the discomfort in his shoulder, it was easy to distract himself from. But Dean wasn’t distracted now. Teeth worrying his lip, Dean’s mind fixated again on the way Castiel had just appeared beside Dean outside of the Impala.  
  
      He’d appeared, right? Or had he been with Dean the entire time? Shit, he couldn’t remember now… He only knew Castiel’s presence had felt reassuring and natural. He dreaded having another dream where it was gone; where Dean was on the road alone again.  
  
_Hold up - so you actually want this kid in your dreams?_ Dean gave himself a mental shake.  
  
      He had a system for this.  
  
      He had been fifteen years old when he realized he was attracted to dudes; it took him until he was eighteen and a drunken make-out with a friend to be okay with it. After that, whenever he felt his _okay-dudes-are-kinda-hot_ feelings were getting pent-up, he’d go out and find himself a discreet hook up.  
  
       Now though, the thought of having a random hook-up (guy or girl) made Dean’s stomach heavy. He knew how it would go, play by play: it would start fun and exciting, until about halfway in when everything became familiar – routine, even. The breathy moans; the dirty words, all building to a release that lasted thirty seconds. The whole thing would be them merely filling roles, and then Dean would feel sticky and cheap, and he’d flee from the Hook Up’s place (because he never took them back to his) at the soonest possible moment.  
  
       The frequency of this practice had dropped off considerably when they moved. It’s not that Dean didn’t have the opportunity in Vancouver; he just didn’t have the time or (mostly) the energy. And with everything going on in his life, it was pretty easy to ignore.  
  
       Except now, some dark-haired and blue-eyed guy was getting into Dean’s subconscious, reminding him that yep, he definitely liked dudes and okay, maybe underneath it all he was really freaking lonely.  
  
       A hand clapped him on the shoulder, causing pain to ricochet through his bones like a thunderclap. Dean winced but tried to hide it.  
  
      “Shit – sorry, man.” Victor took his hand away. “Forgot about the shoulder.”  
  
      Dean grit his teeth. “Hey Victor.”  
  
      Victor searched Dean’s face. “You look terrible, man. You still in for Funky’s?”  
  
      Over Victor’s shoulder, Dean saw Tessa’s eyes flick up to the pair of them. He nodded at Victor.  
  
      “Yeah, I’m cool.” He turned his attention back to the paper on the counter. Dean had been stoked when he was promoted to manager (alongside Victor) but that enthusiasm had tapered off after the first few weeks of making the schedule. Juggling everybody’s requests for time-off was not how he liked to spend his time.  
  
      Seeing he was occupied (and not in a great mood), Victor grabbed a few bags of their latest shipment and retreated into the back. Tessa threw a look over her shoulder and sidled up to Dean.  
  
      “You and Victor going to Funky’s, huh?” She asked, her tone very much unimpressed. Dean straightened, looking at her warily.  
  
      “Yeah, I thought I’d check it out after work.” He answered nonchalantly, as if you just stopped into a biker bar like you’d stop for groceries.  
  
       “For fun, or strictly business?” She pressed.  
  
       “Does anybody go there for fun?”  
  
       “Dean,” Tessa’s eyes turned hard, “You said that was a one-time deal.”  
  
       Dean frowned at her. “Why do you care?”  
  
       He didn’t say it meanly; he just wanted to know.  
  
       “Because you’re a good person. Even if you try to hide it, or don’t believe it, or whatever.” Tessa crossed her arms. “And I’ve seen guys come in here, get caught up with Victor and what he has going at Funky’s, and it never ends well.”  
  
       There was a quiet beat. Dean just looked at Tessa, not bothering to argue because he knew she had a point, and because he knew it didn’t matter.  
  
       He turned back to the schedule. “I can look after myself. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
       Tessa watched him for a moment, a sour pucker to her mouth. Then she turned away.  
  
        “Fine. Whatever you say.”

*

       Castiel wasn’t a fan of house parties. Despite this, he’d been to his fair share. Mostly because Gabriel dragged him along, and despite how many friends the guy drummed up, his preferred sidekick was always Castiel. Even if Castiel was a very reluctant sidekick.  
  
        The house across from Powell Park was falling to pieces. Half of the front porch looked like it was about to crumble to the grass, and a couch with no cushions occupied the space beside the front door. Paint chipped off the siding and cheap blankets hung in the windows, acting as curtains. Music blared from inside along with the dull roar of a crowd.  
  
        Unease prickled its way across Castiel’s skin, but Gabriel rubbed his hands together with apparent enthusiasm.  
  
        “What’s our plan, Gabriel?” Castiel asked, attempting to keep his brother’s mind focused.  
  
        “We keep an eye out for Luke.”  
  
        Castiel rolled his eyes. “I mean when we find him.”  
  
        “Tell him to talk to dad.” Gabriel’s expression turned a little more serious, now. “I mean, this could be a good thing. Luke just split; they never had closure. Maybe now they can get some. Maybe Dad will realize Luke's a lost cause and we'll go back home.”  
  
        Castiel looked at his brother doubtfully. Gabriel grimaced.  
  
        “Fine.” He bit out. “It's not a great plan, but I just want to see the kid. I need proof it's actually him."  
  
        Castiel swallowed and looked at his shoes. He couldn’t argue with that.

*

        When Dean stepped through the wooden doorway of Funky’s on East Hastings, a distinct voice in the back of his mind said _you shouldn’t be here._  
The voice was feminine. Distant; familiar but almost forgotten. He shook it off.  
  
        The bar was dark, lit only by the neon signs on the walls and the low light behind the bar. Older guys with thick beards and leather cuts rotated around the pool tables.  
  
        Dean tilted his chin up a little and followed Victor through the bar. The shitty audio system played Judas Priest and the air smelled like gasoline and beer.  
  
        It reminded him of his father. Still, the voice in the back of his head insisted:  
  
_You shouldn’t be here._  
  
        Victor nodded at the bartender – a bald dude with neck tattoos – and continued through a door near the end of the bar.  
  
        The music muffled and they stepped through a hallway, through another door and into the depths of a smoke-filled room with no windows. A collection of ripped-apart furniture was grouped around a large wooden coffee table, which held stacks of both American and Canadian money, a rolling tray, and an ash tray filled with roaches.  
Sitting at the table and counting a stack of pesos, was a muscled but amiable biker named Benny. A prospect stood just inside the door, arms crossed and face stony.  
  
         Benny nodded at Victor, but a playful spark lit in his eye when he saw Dean and he grinned.  
  
        “Hey, boys.” He tapped the bills on the table and stacked them neatly. “You said you found a guy, Victor, but I didn’t know you meant the kid.”  
  
        With nearly anyone else, Dean would’ve bristled. But this was Benny; he and the guy had sort of hit it off last spring, selling on the UBC campus together. Benny was about seven years older than Dean, and they had something of a brother-like camaraderie. Every once in a while, though, Benny’s jovial nature slipped into flirting. This always caught Dean off guard, since as far as he knew nobody in Vancouver was aware that he swung that way (even if it was only a little).  
  
        “Fuck off, old man.” Dean rallied. Benny gestured for them to sit.  
  
        “Hey, I’m not complaining.” Benny dug around in a backpack sitting by the couch and produced a ratty notebook. “You made us a killing in April.”  
  
        Victor clapped Dean on his good shoulder.  
  
        “What are you thinking this time?” Dean asked, anxious to know what sort of anxieties would be keeping him awake, now. Benny’s paw-like hand scratched numbers in the notebook.  
  
        “I used to have this dude posted up in the West End, but he didn’t work out. You can replace him.”  
  
        Benny passed the notebook to Dean. He produced a banged-up android phone from the backpack and slid it across the table.  
  
        “The new number’s written in there; we change it pretty randomly. All your clients are in that book. If they don’t have something set up with me, they don’t get jack shit.” Benny leveled Dean with a serious look. “You’re not a public dealer on campus anymore, Dean. This is all private business.”  
  
        Dean flipped through the book. There were names and numbers; tallies of money paid back and still owing. “What am I selling?”  
  
        “Benzos.” Benny nodded to the notebook. Dean turned another page and found a list of doses and prices. “I used to have dealers selling different things, but we’re compartmentalizing. You’re my benzo guy, now.”  
  
        Dean nodded along.  
  
        “Benzos” were a kind of sedative, usually prescribed to people with anxiety. The high that came with taking too much was manic; the same lowered inhibitions as alcohol, but without the fuzziness.  
  
        “It’s good money, brother.” Benny’s voice was low and encouraging. He could tell Dean was reluctant. Dean nodded slowly.  
  
        “Look, Benny, this isn’t permanent or anything.” Dean said sternly. “I just need the cash for a while. When I don’t, I’m out.”  
  
        Benny’s lip lifted at the corner and he nodded at Victor. “That’s what he said, too.”  
  
        Victor held his hands out, affronted. “I still need the cash.”  
  
        “Yeah, yeah.” Benny chuckled, leaning forward on the couch and rubbing his hands together. “All right - I’m moving stacks right now, and I’m expecting your shipment tomorrow morning.”  
  
        Victor nodded along, and Benny looked at Dean.   
  
        “Your shit’s with Victor’s, so you can pick up with him tomorrow.”  
  
        Dean had no idea who they would be picking up from, or where, but he nodded all the same.  
  
        “So with your cut and Dean’s, we’re talking five.” Benny looked at Victor, and Dean’s stomach filled with lead.  
  
        He didn’t even have the money to buy into this deal, but Victor had offered to spot him. He knew he’d make the money back and double in a couple of weeks, but that was still longer than he was comfortable with.  
  
       He cringed to think of his dad’s face, if he knew Dean was dropping $2500 he didn’t have on illegal drugs, so he could sell them.  
  
       Victor pulled a rolled-up envelope from within his jacket and put it on the table. Benny took it and began counting the bills.  
  
       Dean glanced at Victor. The only sound in the room was the music muffled from the bar and the faint creak from Benny’s leather cut. And suddenly, he felt so freaking sad.  
  
       It seemed like every high school teacher he'd had, every boss, especially his father – all would tell him _if you’re not careful, you’re gonna end up selling drugs on the street someday._ So as he sat in that back room of Funky’s, Dean was certain that he was hitting some kind of personal low that had been predicted for him from the very beginning.  
  
        He supposed he should be grateful that no one important was around to witness it.

*

        Gabriel met up with Ash the second they walked through the front door. The place was packed with a strange collection of people and overlaid with a purple-ish haze from the smoke. The girls had neon hair in blues, greens and purples and some dudes wore bandanas in gang colours; everyone had tattoos or piercings. At the coffee table, a tiny girl with turquoise hair split white powder into thin lines.  
  
         Castiel followed Gabriel closely.  
  
         It took them about four minutes to find Luke. The kid was lounging near the couches, and Gabriel stopped in his tracks a second before Castiel’s eyes landed on the head of sandy-blonde hair.  
  
         Luke’s face was stretched into a smile as he laughed with the guy who was sprawled next to him. His eyes looked as foggy as Castiel hated to remember them. His blood turned cold at the face he’d long since gotten used to only seeing thumbnail-size on a computer screen.  
  
         Gabriel stood frozen in place, his face blank as he stared at his older brother across the room. The music blared some rap song that grated across Castiel’s nerves, but somehow Luke must have sensed someone watching him. His eyes flicked over to land on Gabriel’s hard stare, and then his face went blank. He noticed Castiel behind him, before looking at Gabriel again.  
  
         For three intense seconds, the brothers just glared at each other. Then to Castiel’s utter surprise, Gabriel turned on his heel and stalked back out the front door. Castiel cast Luke an icy glare before following him.  
  
         It was right then, that Castiel realized that he’d been hoping Ash was wrong. He’d hoped there was some random Luke with blonde hair and tawny eyes that would serve as some strange doppelgänger, and explain Ash’s suspicion. Because then Luke would remain a mystery, and Castiel could make the best of mysteries. He could pretend that Luke had turned his life around, and was better off without them; or that he was dead, and better off that way, too.  
  
         (Castiel didn’t think he had a healthy perception of death. He’d never really talked to anyone about it.)  
  
         Seeing Luke now, like this - in a ramshackle house in an inner-city neighborhood, obviously inebriated and surrounded by drug dealers and addicts - was the worst-case scenario Castiel hadn’t wanted to contemplate. And now it was staring him in the face, cheshire grin and all.  
  
         The cool air of the night was a balm after the crowded heat of inside. The music faded and Castiel realized his ears were ringing; he ignored them, focusing instead on following Gabriel as he strode down the front walk.  
  
         “Gabriel -” Castiel started,  
  
         “Gabe!” Luke bounded out the front door. Ash hovered behind, a joint hanging uncertainly from the corner of his mouth.  
  
         “Oh, what - now you wanna talk?” Gabriel rounded on Luke, and Castiel took position immediately: standing between his brothers, squaring his shoulders as he held his hands up to hold Gabriel back. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for a year!”  
  
         Gabriel lunged a little over Castiel’s shoulder; Castiel pushed him back. “You couldn’t even send a, _oh hey by the way - I’m still alive_?!”  
  
          “I’m sorry.” Luke’s delivered the words flawlessly, like they were rehearsed. “I’m just - I’m trying to get myself back on track.”  
  
          “Yeah, looks like it.” Gabriel turned away abruptly. Castiel watched him walk away a few steps, then turned to Luke.  
  
          “Look at you, little brother.” Luke’s eyes were warm but it made Castiel uncomfortable. “Didn’t realize you’d grow up so much while I was gone. Still playing peacemaker, huh?”

         Castiel’s heartbreak turned to white hot anger.

“You promised her you wouldn’t become this.” His voice was low and hurt. Luke either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“It doesn’t matter what I promised mom.” He laughed, but it sent a chill down Castiel’s spine. His older brother’s eyes were lightless. “She’s dead, Cas.”

Castiel felt something in him break, but before he could take a swing at his older brother, Gabriel lunged over his shoulder and beat him to it.

 

*

         After leaving Benny’s, Dean checked his phone to find a text.

 

_         Sam: Staying at Brady’s tonight. I’ll be home by noon tomorrow. _

 

        Brady had been Sam’s first friend when he started school in Vancouver. The kid was nice enough - played sports at school, kept out of trouble and was a brainiac, like Sam. His parents were fairly well-off and had a condo nearly Stanley Park. Dean had no doubt Sam was in good hands, and even if it was a cover up, Dean still felt so guilty (about basically everything) that he felt the kid was entitled to a night out. Knowing Sam, his idea of a cool night out would be hitting up some geek film at the Rio and then walking down the seawall. 

        Figuring he had absolutely no reason not to - and sort of hankering for self-punishment - Dean decided to dip by Victor’s before heading home for the night. It wasn’t even that he was having a party; people just gravitated towards Victor’s, stopping in to get a buzz (or keep one going) on the way to or from somewhere else. 

        As always, there were people and drugs everywhere. Victor lived with six other roommates, all of them either users or dealers. The coffee table was powdered with coke and a group of girls passed Molly between them; the kitchen table was a mess of roaches, half-busted nugs and shatter.

        Though he’d tried a few once or twice, Dean kept himself away from hard drugs. Not because he didn’t like them - because he sort of did, and he was afraid that if he chased that white dragon, he’d fall down the rabbit hole and never come out.

        Weed and beer, though, very much agreed with Dean. He knew where his line was, and never felt like he was losing touch with reality. Which was why he was content to post up near the back door with Victor, smoking and taking advantage of the cool night air without leaving the light of the house. 

        “I don’t want you to let Benny freak you out.” Victor said suddenly, contemplating the label of his beer. The music and noise of the house was boisterous, but it was calmer by the back door. “Once you make bank, get out. Nobody can make that call for you - it’s not like you’re affiliated.”

        “No, but,” Dean shifted, uncomfortable, “Selling drugs for people who are affiliated? It makes you  _ something _ .”

        “All right. No doubt, no doubt.” Victor allowed, nodding. “So just cover your ass and keep your cash clean. Don’t do any favours, don’t accept favours, and don’t front product. Then when you can split, it’s a clean break.”

        Dean nodded, taking a deep breath. It sounded almost harmless, put as simple as that. He didn’t have many close friends in Van (his own choice) but right then, he was grateful for Victor.

        Suddenly, a strange sensation crawled up his neck and he looked up.

        Across the house, Ash was standing at the front screen door but low-key staring at Dean, trying to get his attention. When he saw he had it, he tipped his head to the front yard.

        It was the same way they communicated at work. If something was happening in the smoking lounge and Ash needed back up, he just usually had to nod at Dean to let him know. 

        Not missing a beat, Dean pushed away from the back door and calmly walked to where Ash was standing. (If he gave off the vibe there was a problem, then the whole house would sense it, and the last thing he needed was a bunch of druggies getting paranoid). 

        “What’s up?”

        “Family dispute.” Ash pushed open the door. “I got Gabe and Cas; they’re harmless. But I don’t trust Luke.”

        Dean’s heart stumbled, then picked up double-speed.  _ Cas?  _

        He stepped out onto the front porch, just in time to see the argument turn physically violent. 

        Gabriel pounced on a tall blonde kid, who Dean vaguely recognized and gathered was Luke. He landed a punch then Castiel pulled him off, but Luke lunged back and Castiel stepped between them. A punch intended for Gabriel caught him in the jaw and he stumbled back; Gabriel tackled Luke then it was a full-out brawl.

        “Hey, HEY.” Dean strode down the walk, trying to mimic John’s cop voice. “Knock it off.” 

        He grabbed two fistfuls of Luke’s shirt and dragged him out of the fray, then shoved him away forcefully. Luke stumbled back a few steps in the grass.

        “Cool it.” Dean growled. “Do you want someone to call the cops?”

        Luke’s breathing was rough and his lip was dripping blood, but he glared at Dean icily as he righted himself. They’d never had an interaction before, and Dean could tell he wasn’t a fan of being manhandled. Still, Luke was silent because right then, he knew where he stood: this was Victor’s house, and Dean was tighter with Victor than he was. 

        It was relatively early, and the night was mild. Dean pointed to the streets.

        “Take a walk.” He ordered, and Luke’s jaw tensed. His glare shifted from Dean to the boys behind him, then to the house. Then he turned slowly, shaking a bloody fist at his side as he stalked down the sidewalk.

        The crowd outside of the house deflated and dispersed.

        Dean turned around. Gabriel’s nose was bleeding and Ash helped him to his feet, but Castiel just stood dejectedly, staring after Luke like he was a walking corpse. His lip was cut open and the cheekbone below his eye was bright red.

        “Ow.” Gabriel winced and brought his sleeve to his nose.

        “Gross, man.” Ash pulled it away. “Come on. We gotta find a rag or something.”

        Ash and Gabriel turned to the house, but Castiel didn’t move. Dean looked at him uncertainly, seeing the emotions storming in his blue eyes. Dean had picked apart fights between near strangers that were about stupid things. He knew this fight hadn’t been like that.

        “Are you okay?” He asked, just as Castiel brought his knuckles up to his lip. They came away smeared with red.

        “More or less.” He said the words in a detached, emotionless way as he wiped his hand on his jeans.

        “Victor’s got ice.” Dean suggested, not bothering to hide the concern on his face. He was so used to being concerned about Sam, and that concern always hurt. But here with Castiel it felt nice; it was warm and fuzzy. “And painkillers.”

        Castiel touched the red mark on his cheek now, and winced. This time tomorrow it would be a bruise. His blue eyes considered the house coldly. 

        “I don’t want to go back in there.” He muttered. For whatever reason, Dean was relieved. 

        “I could walk you home.” He tried. Castiel stiffened, his shoulders hunching as he crossed his arms and shivered. Why wasn’t he wearing a jacket?

        “I don’t want to go there, either.”

        Dean frowned, the gears shifting in his mind as his instincts tried to figure out what to do. 

        “Okay, well here’s some options.” He said lightly. “You can tell me to leave you alone and I will, if that’s what you want. We could go somewhere for coffee, and we can talk about something stupid until you feel like going home. Or we could go to my place and do that there, where I have ice and painkillers.”

        Castiel’s blue eyes remained fixed on the sidewalk as he considered Dean’s words. “I like the last option.”

        Dean’s heart skipped. “Are you sure? I mean, we don’t know each other very well and I get the sense you don’t like strangers. So don’t feel like you have to or anything. But you live right by me. Whenever you feel like you wanna go home, it’s right there.”

        Castiel’s lip lifted in a tiny smile, then he winced. “I’m sure. You don’t give me serial killer vibes, and my entire face feels like it’s throbbing, so…”

        Castiel shrugged, and Dean’s chest felt tight.  _ Non-serial killer vibes. That’s practically a compliment, coming from this kid. _

        “Okay. Cool.” He said, and then they turned and started down the sidewalk.

 


End file.
